


Balls, Found and Stolen

by merelyafigment, visionofblue (merelyafigment)



Series: Two Paths Diverged [2]
Category: Oz (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, am I actually managing to write a slow burn for once?, but also pre-slash, no one gets to play pool, or am I just writing gen, somewhat gen, the ship no one asked for, with incredibly subtle subtext
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:47:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26208163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merelyafigment/pseuds/merelyafigment, https://archiveofourown.org/users/merelyafigment/pseuds/visionofblue
Summary: Follows"Ch-ch-changes". Alvarez and Beecher run into each other outside Sister Pete's office during their days in Unit B, before the re-opening of Emcity..
Relationships: Miguel Alvarez & Tobias Beecher, Miguel Alvarez/Tobias Beecher
Series: Two Paths Diverged [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1898122
Comments: 3
Kudos: 3





	Balls, Found and Stolen

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Oz was full of bad language, homophobic and racist slurs and attitudes, terrible attitudes towards many things really, bad deeds, etc. They were an offensive bunch, and this fic contains those offensive things. Miguel is also fairly insensitive about mental health issues this whole series.
> 
> Author's Note: This chronologically follows after ["Ch-ch-changes"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26078149), well before the events of ["The Huntsman"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26146207). The Huntsman was written and posted first, though, since Miguel didn't want to spill the details of their previous run-ins when they were stuck in Unit B, until now.
> 
> Also: nope. Not done writing The Pairing No One Wants To Read (And I Didn't Plan To Write). They just wouldn't shut up.

Why was Alvarez not at all fucking surprised to see Beecher chilling in the hallway outside Sister Pete's, inexplicably throwing a ball in the air? 

_Was that?_

Yep. It was a motherfucking ball from the pool table in Unit B. 

Miguel still couldn't figure out why the hell they'd let the crazy fucker back into the unit after his little biting adventure. Miguel was glad they had, don't get him wrong, but it seemed like a pretty terrible decision from an administrative standpoint. These dicks really did suck at running a prison. No wonder there'd been a riot. Some of the rumors swirling around the man (and there were a lot to sift through) said Beecher's return had something to do with attending counseling and being appropriately cooperative with the inquiry into the riot. Those had been the ones Beecher had basically confirmed when Miguel had asked the man upon his arrival in the unit.

Miguel left the hack escorting him in his wake, throwing up a jaunty little wave that clearly meant 'fuck you' to the asshole, as he settled down next to Beecher to wait outside Sister Pete's office.

Motherfucker paid them no mind, probably wandering off into a nearby stairwell for a smoke, the hypocritical bastard. Seriously, was Beecher invisible or fucking magic or something? _He was tossing a fucking billiard ball in the air!_ Everyone knew his unpredictable ass could start hurling it at heads at any moment. Yet not a word about it from the shitty hack.

Granted, Miguel kind of loved that, but it was also annoying, the lack of fucks these asswipes gave. He knew Beecher probably wasn't a threat to him or the nun, but that idiot didn't.

"Hey, there, Alvarez. Are you seeking counseling to soothe your troubled soul as well this fine 'morn?" Beecher greeted him, seemingly in one of his calmer moods.

Miguel raised an eyebrow at him. "It's afternoon, Beecher. And I'm seeking the soothing lack of disgusting assholes crowding our new home. I always got the troubled soul excuse in my back pocket--" He ran a finger smoothly over his scar with a grin as Beecher stopped tossing the ball long enough to watch him. "--why not use it for a break from that smelly shithole?"

"Smart man. Whoops -- I mean, I'm so proud of you for seeking help, of course." Beecher's tease was light, and almost friendly. Yeah, must've been in a decent mood, at least around Miguel. "Too bad my presence ruins your plan for peace and solitude."

"Nah, don't mind you, Bowie. As long as you don't start fucking singing." Miguel admitted with a casual shake of his head.

"I'm honored, Alvarez. Truly." Fucking sarcastic as always. "I can't say as I mind your company either." But Beecher was changeable, too, like a fucking chameleon, and a little bit of something genuine shimmered across that tough new skin he wore before it disappeared again. 

Miguel was watching the rhythm and flow of Beecher's toss of the ball -- up and down, catching and throwing it straight up, one-handed. He was also watching Tobias's eyes and the tilt of his head. Because he knew if you watched those, sometimes it could help clue you in to coming movement.

It's one of the reasons why Miguel was able to deftly snatch the ball out of the air, claiming it as his own with a triumphant smirk. He was just that good.

Miguel turned it over in his hand, looking at it thoughtfully. "You stole the eight ball, man? No wonder those pasty racist bastards were so pissed when I headed out."

They'd been part of what was annoying him, and really, fucking everyone around them. Miguel was lucky. He could schedule time with the nun and get escorted to see her pretty easily, given his history people tended to worry about. Today had just felt like a good day to use it to get away for a bit. Miguel never really thought he'd miss McManus's crumbling Emerald City, but Unit B really fucked sucked, man.

"I was feeling symbolic today." Beecher shrugged with the cryptic explanation, and Miguel took it as a signal that he probably wasn't going to get more out of the man on that subject, unfortunately. Beecher didn't try to snatch his toy back, though.

Miguel tossed it easily back to him anyway. Was his trophy, not Miguel's. To the victor goes the spoils, and all that. The bikers and the Nazis liked to act like the pool table was mostly theirs, and maybe at some point it had been. But since the influx of former Emcity residents, they'd had to learn to share. Between Miguel and his boys, and the homeboys once their asses had dried out, all carrying their reps from the riot, they weren't letting the only entertainment in their shitty new unit be fully controlled by those bastards.

Miguel liked to play, and he maybe should've been pissed at Beecher's little theft, but he was too fucking amused. He'd keep Beecher's secret, no problem. It took balls, and a really fucked up kind of boredom, to steal the, well, _ball_ , and Miguel couldn't bring himself to have beef with the man.

"You like pissing off those white power cocksuckers." Miguel corrected him, because that had to be the true reason. It was obvious. "I play that, too, you know? I could be fucking pissed." He was faking his indignation, and it was obvious as he playful grin bled through.

"Yeah, you seem absolutely livid, Alvarez." Beecher's answering grin was less sharp than usual. It looked more like actual comfortable amusement than Miguel usually saw on the man these days, and less like the fucking Joker on a crack binge. "Fine. I'll put it back. Eventually." Beecher stopped tossing it again, gesturing towards Miguel with it. "Only for you."

"Well, now I'm the honored one, hermano." Miguel joked right back, because he could play the sarcasm game, too. He could also, sort of, a tiny bit mean it. Like he suspected Beecher might have as well. "Tell you what -- you owe me a game when you return it, and I won't tell those angry motherfuckers you're the one who took it."

"Deal. Seems like you could've asked for more, but I'm not going to argue."

"Isn't arguing kind of a lawyer's whole deal?" Miguel felt the need to point out, but he was mostly just enjoying keeping the man talking. Back and forth with Beecher was entertaining, and it passed the time better than most of the few things available in here. Like the pool table. Shit, Miguel really hoped Beecher kept his word and put the damn ball back. Didn't really matter, since Miguel could just get it back from Beecher himself if he didn't.

"Not all lawyers, some are just very good with fine print and paperwork. Besides, I was disbarred." Beecher explained casually, as his idle play with the ball shifted, going from hand to hand now.

Miguel considered it for a moment, as well as considering snatching back the ball. "Yeah, but that doesn't change your nature, or rip the knowledge out of your head, does it?" He just watched the low arc of its path between Beecher's hands instead. It was kind of, like, meditative or something.

"You are correct, that it does not. I think. Hard to tell with me these days." Beecher wasn't looking at him now, lost himself in watching the ball. "Were you going to tell someone I stole it if I didn't agree?"

Beecher lifted his gaze to him, and Miguel saw it, the coming move. He easily caught Beecher's hand-off toss of the eight ball. "Nah, probably not. Made me laugh, hermano."

"I didn't think so. You never struck me as a tattletale, Alvarez." Beecher's grin wasn't on his face, but it was in his eyes.

" _Tattletale?_ What the fuck?" Miguel rubbed a hand lightly over his chin, not bothering to keep his chuckle in as he just held the hard object in his other hand. If he'd expected it to be warm from body heat, it wasn't. The constant movement Beecher had kept it in must've kept warmth from settling in. Or it was just whatever cold hard shit the ball was made of didn't absorb it well. "I mean, it's more 'snitches end up in ditches' where I'm from, but I guess they don't have that where they make guys like you."

"Yeah, I'm not so much something they have there anymore, either." Beecher said, like he was contemplating it and himself.

Yeah, this was much fucking better than hanging in Unit B listening to bitching Nazis. Plus, since the door was closed and nobody was coming, it seemed like the nun was busy. Miguel probably had time for some of the questions he'd had for the other man. Besides, the longer he had out here and not in that shit unit, the happier he was for the moment. He'd wait all fucking day, no problem.

He didn't start tossing the ball restlessly yet, he just held it in his palm and looked it over. There was a tiny chip in the glossy paint. "Hey, Beecher, can I ask you something? What made you finally snap? I mean, you took it for so long, what made you decide to switch it up and fight back?"

"I feel I should be offended in some way by at least part of that." He didn't sound too offended, but he was probably a little fucking annoyed. Sugarcoating things wasn't Miguel's strong suit, and he was pretty much okay with that.

Miguel let Beecher grab the ball out of his hand, having seen that coming, too. He idly wondered if it had absorbed anything from him that Beecher could feel, but he let that thought skitter away with barely a glance at it.

"No offense meant, Beecher, really. I was just curious because it was kind of fucking amazing to watch you turn the tables. What you've done? That almost never happens." He meant it, holding Beecher's gaze and letting his seriousness show.

A little grin teased out, and yeah, this one had a bit more of that crazy in it. "Well, it's a tale as old as time: attempted murder, racism, and PCP."

Beecher craned his neck back as he tossed the ball high above him. Miguel didn't grab it. Could have. Beecher managed a two-handed catch just fine.

"Yeah, I'm gonna need you to tell me that tale, hermano. Because that explanation doesn't clear up dick." It came out friendly and easy, because, well, Miguel was at ease. He did shoot Beecher a look, but he was just playing still.

Beecher held the ball, giving it the eye. He was doing a dramatic pause or some shit. "I guess you could say I was behind the eight ball."

Miguel threw on a deadpan glare, keeping his groan inside him. This fucker here, _damn_. "That ain't funny."

Beecher shrugged and let loose that high, thin unhinged laugh, quietly. Honestly? It was practically like a demented giggle or something. "Schillinger decided he was done with me, which should have filled me with joy." Beecher was tossing the ball again, but with a heavy smack against his palms now. "Sadly, Vern baby doesn't know how to treat his toys." Beecher's voice took on a bitter snarling edge. Miguel understood it, got the sudden subtle violence lurking in Beecher, the way it was flowing out into his rougher handling of the eight ball. "He decided to execute me, but with a fun Aryan flair. He put a Confederate flag shirt on me and sent me out into the quad."

"Shit, man." Miguel's audible exhale was slow and rough, too. "You were dead meat."

All of Beecher's movement stopped, dead still, making Miguel focus more sharply on him. "I've got a question for you, Alvarez."

"Shoot." Miguel offered easily, but a finger quickly shot up to hold back the other man for a second. "But you're telling me the end of that story."

"I am." Beecher confirmed with a slight nod, as the ball disappeared altogether, into the large pocket of the grey hoodie the man technically shouldn't even have had with their new standard issue prison uniforms. That's how he'd smuggled it out, then. Would've looked fucking hilariously obvious jammed in the pocket of the dark blue pants they all wore now, if it would've even fit. Beecher continued, interrupting Miguel wondering how long it would take for the hoodie to be confiscated. "But first -- I know Adebisi and his guys would've killed me. What about you?"

Miguel thought he knew why Beecher had stopped tossing the ball around. Like he could feel it, the echo, coiled in his own muscles. He was maybe removing the temptation chuck it violently.

"You don't want the answer to that, man." Miguel kept his warning casual. He really didn't want to irritate Beecher, or make the man stop talking. Miguel's thoughts on the subject weren't exactly pretty, after all.

The corner of Beecher's mouth quirked, a hint of something that wasn't really a smile. "Wouldn't have asked if I didn't want to know. Not my style anymore." He didn't sound pissed, though, thankfully. Sounded like he knew the ugly, and was okay with it.

He asked for it, he was going to get it. Miguel's vague shrug carried him backwards, to lean further back against the wall behind them. "Warned you, man, tried to be nice and spare your feelings and shit."

Beecher huffed out a small laugh, just watching him. "I'm touched by your consideration, and it's noted."

A soft snort escaped Miguel at the flash of humor. Yep, always a little bit fun to talk to Beecher, no matter what nasty shit they were talking about. Like if Miguel would've killed his ass that day for wandering around with a crappy Confederate flag emblazoned on his chest like a challenge. "Maybe? Definitely would've beat the shit out of you, Beecher. Could've permanently fucked you up. I mean, some of those fuckers did that shit and I let it slide to avoid a war... but you were weak then, man." The shrug that drug his shoulders against the wall this time was more like an apology. "I would never have put up with that from you."

Beecher leaned in the opposite direction, forward, to rest his hands on his knees, but he kept eye contact with Miguel beside him. He looked unfazed and ready to complete his story. "Thank you for your refreshing, if bracing, honesty. Back to my tale. So, I had a dilemma, and I sought help, only to be offered some PCP instead --"

"--O'Reily." Miguel interrupted, because shit, that clicked in his head right away. And everything else started to follow.

Beecher nodded, shooting him a questioning look.

"That's where you got your tits from, not us or the homeboys." Miguel explained his thought process. As he turned it over in his mind, more things occurred to him and the picture formed more clearly. "Shit, man, if you think about it, he might've actually been trying to help you. I mean, he might've just thought it would be fun to watch your ass explode and go out in a blaze of glory, or maybe he felt like fucking with some rednecks, but... it wasn't a bad plan, man. It was probably your best shot." Yep, fucking Ryan O'Reily. Miguel had known it, soon as Beecher had mentioned help and tits. Couldn't be anyone else who would've set Beecher on that path. "That scheming Mick is kind of a genius, maybe."

Miguel sort of had questions for O'Reily, too, occasionally. But he knew it was a bad fucking idea to get close enough to the man to ask him anything out of nothing but bored interest. Even talking to him could land your ass in something. Besides, his answers would be all spin and lies, anyway. His bullshit was fun to listen to, sometimes, and he had good info, sometimes. But you had to handle it all carefully. Couldn't relax, like Miguel was now.

"Are you implying I can't wreak havoc without PCP, Alvarez? Here I was hoping you were clever." Beecher was mostly faking taking offense, Miguel was pretty sure, but not entirely.

"Fuck you." It was Miguel's most mild version of the insult, and he nudged Beecher's shoulder with his own as the man leaned back beside him. "I'm a clever bastard. Figured out O'Reily's plan, didn't I?" Well, he had no confirmation his reasoning was true, but Alvarez had a feeling. You didn't give people fucking PCP to help soothe their hard journey or relax them so they could use their brain to solve their problems. "I meant _at the time_ it may have been the only way to get you amped up enough to go off, Beecher. It's different now." Miguel lazily swept his arm in a vague and all encompassing gesture towards Beecher. "You've let all your shit run wild and free all on your own, no tits required. It's fucking impressive. Like you've been unlocked or something."

Any offense Beecher had taken melted away into thoughtfulness. "Or changed into something new."

A low noise slipped from Miguel's lips as he slipped into his own contemplation. Beecher's side was barely brushing against him, as they both relaxed against the wall. At least Beecher bathed more than most of the fuckers in here. He may look a little homeless, but he didn't smell it. "Nah. I don't know. People don't do that too much, you know? Actually go and change into something they never were and shit." It was something he'd thought about before, since landing in here had caused even him to learn things about himself. "Even me, when I found my love through my kid, it was probably already there somewhere. The potential, you know? I just didn't have the right key or something. Don't know. I go back and forth on it. Figuring your shit out is hard."

Beecher's voice turning serious drew his attention back, making Miguel turn his head to look at the other man. "I'm sorry about your baby, Alvarez. This isn't really a place built on sincerity, but in this case, I mean it. You have my condolences."

He could tell -- Beecher fucking meant it. He wasn't wild and unpredictable or covered in interesting sharp edges at that moment. He was human, steadily holding Miguel's eyes. Even his voice sounded a little different. A mix of Beecher, old and newly discovered.

"I'm fucking sorry about it, too, Beecher." Miguel statement left him with a sigh, returning to staring in front of them afterwards, at just another familiar thick wall. "But at least I unlocked that part of me, you know? My heart. I didn't really love anything before. But that shit was real. It is real. Hurts like a bitch still, always will. But I hadn't ever felt any of it before. Or maybe you're right. Maybe it wasn't there before and I just changed."

Miguel thought about this sometimes. Felt it. Examined it, the things he hadn't known about himself before. It's not like he didn't have time in here.

"No, you might be right, Alvarez. I think maybe this was always here. Somewhere inside." Beecher spoke quietly, this more settled side of him was one Alvarez didn't get to see very often. If the man hadn't been thinking about this shit before like Miguel had, though Miguel got the sense Beecher had too, he definitely would be now. 

A slight smirk tugged up the corner of his mouth as another thought connected in Miguel's head. "Well, that's a fucking door that Nazi shithead probably regrets unlocking then, man."

Beecher's answering laugh was still quiet, but it was fucking dark. Didn't bother Miguel, that darkness made perfect sense.

"At least you know now. You know more about yourself." Miguel pointed out, and it wasn't a consolation. It couldn't fucking be, with the way the man had learned his truths. Still, you had to take what you got out of shitty experiences.

"I have learned some fairly surprising things about what I'm capable of." Beecher agreed, slipping away from being so serious, back to a touch of chaos. Miguel could tell he wasn't actually only joking, though, but still taking it in.

"Some truly fucked up shit, that's what you're capable of." Miguel made sure it didn't sound like an insult, because it wasn't, by letting his appreciation color his voice. A dry laugh followed the words out of his throat. "Shit, man. We don't even need Sister Pete. We did our therapy ourselves and everything."

The darkness left Beecher's laugh, making it fuller and deeper. "Good session for today, Alvarez. I feel we're both learning and processing things now."

Miguel chuckled a little again, shaking his head. "Fuck, I still want to see the nun." He leaned sideways, pressing closer to Beecher to speak conspiratorially. "She's kind of hot, Bowie."

Miguel didn't startle, didn't move, when Beecher slapped his hands to his own knees with an exclamation. "I know! Right?"

Miguel couldn't quite tell whose laughter was lightly shaking him, his or that of the man still right at his side.

Nun or not, Miguel was glad he'd used his good excuse to take a break from Unit B that particular day.

Beecher had better put that fucking ball back, though.

***  
End

**Author's Note:**

> Author's lament: there's still more with these two coming. I seriously cannot stop writing them, and this perplexing series, despite the fact that I have plenty of Alvarez/O'Reily fic to work on.


End file.
